Alternate Potterverse
by The Itch
Summary: Questions have been posed. Would you care to see the answers? [The Itch's Drabble Series newest drabble: The Cold Case of Harry Potter]
1. Holy War

Petunia Dursley carefully held the babe, hands shaking as she read the letter that had been tucked into his blanket-- for this was not her child. This was the son of her once beloved sister, Lilian Evans. 

When they had been young, Lily had always looked to her for protection from their uncompromising grandparents-- their parents were not often there to care for them. At least, not until Lily's eleventh year-- the year she had been called to Hogwarts to begin her lessons in Witchcraft.

That was what had broken the ties between the sisters. Raised by their grandparents for longer, even just a few years, Petunia had taken on some of their beliefs; including the one that said that witchcraft was a devil-bestowed power. To Petunia, the fact that her much loved sister could not resist the call of that evil power, meant that Lily was already too far gone. She would never have the sister she loved back-- only this demon worshiping... thing... standing in the girl's place.

When Lily had returned from her first year of school, their parents returned home from their travels for good. Petunia saw this as another example of witchery-- their parents had never been there before.

The blonde had lost all faith in her family at that time.

But now...

The words on the note were as clear as the harsh black marks on the babe's face, circling that pecular scar. Already, the marks were beginning to fade.

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

_To the Missus Dursley, Sister of Lilian Evans;_

_It is my shame to inform you that we must place this burden upon you. The child is the son of Lilian Evans and James Potter, two prominent Aurors who have gained many post humous honors in their fight against the Dark Lord. They sacrificed their lives to defeat the madman; a madman who had a contingency plan._

_Upon his death at the hands of Evans and Potter, he sent his very soul into the young body of their son. It is to my eternal consternation that we were unable to extract the Dark One from your nephew's flesh. Because of this, we have taken a step that has not been used in centuries; we have since bound all of the boy's magic into the seal you see upon his face. He has no more power than the average squib, and never shall, should the seal hold._

_And hold it shall, until his dying day, when the spirit of the Dark Lord may finally be extracted, weakened from his battle with the seal. It should be a simple affair to destroy the spirit at that time, though we know not how just yet. Rest assured that the Ministry of Magic will work day in and day out in order to discover how to finally destroy the spirit; and on that day, we shall gladly remove this burden from you._

_Until then, however, you will be provided with monetary compensation to put up with this child-version of the Dark Lord._

_Our most sincere apologises for resting this upon your shoulders._

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic._

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Petunia stroked the soft black hair of her nephew; here was a remnant of her dear sister. This child... this wonderful, magic-less child... she promised the dear lord that she would raise him to be what his mother was too weak to become. With the devils having sealed off his own devil-spawned power, she would not have to worry about him becoming enchanted with their ways and running off to join them.

She would have to discipline him a touch stronger than her own beloved son, due to the blood of his demonic father, but she would reform him into a proper man of the Church of England.

A thrill of delight wound it's way down her back. Perhaps... perhaps she could raise the boy to do what she never could-- convince the children stolen from their proper places in the world... convince them to give up the devil's power and return to the light of god. Yes... yes, that was a wonderous idea.

She could hardly wait!

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Seventeen years later...

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Harrison Evan Dursley-- once known as Harry James Potter-- tugged irritably on the silver cross around his neck. It was an old habit, begun when he was but a toddler. Back then he had worn a plastic cross large enough not to choke on; now it was small and metal, more a symbol than a pacifier. He was dressed smartly-- his khaki's pressed, and his golf shirt impecible.

He hated it.

Harri-- as he much prefered to be called-- would much prefered a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. White or black, it didn't matter; just anything but this... junk... he was currently wearing. But his mother- - well, his aunt, but she and her husband had formally adopted him when he was three-- had insisted. And while he was quite content to disobey his mother's whims, this was an important date.

Despite everything that had ever been said about him, he had graduated two months ago. And now... now he was going to join the Brigade. A warmth started in his stomach at the mere thought; he had been groomed for this all his life. Told the stories of the evils of the wizards and witches that infested his beloved England.

He hadn't believed them for the longest time-- more than half of his life. His hand moved from the cross about his neck, to his cheek, briefly covering the black marks that crisscrossed his face in a strange little network. That was the remnants of his eleventh birthday party.

They had come for him; come with the intention of killing him, he knew. Mother had told him what they had planned to do with him, had even showed him the old letter that had been sent to their door with him when he had been a baby. These people had bound his powers-- for which he was grateful-- and promised only to arrive when they had a way to kill the demon spirit trapped within him. Which also meant that he would be killed.

They had come in, wands at the front, and proceeded to use their evil witchcraft to freeze his parents, brother, and friends in place, leaving him all to his lonesome.

He'd run like the hounds of hell were after him-- and he could think of no better description for the men in dresses. He hadn't gotten far, before running into an old man with a beard that was snow white. The old man had frozen him in place with his wand. He had said numerous things in other languages, but Harri didn't understand a word of it.

All he knew was that his head felt as though it were on fire, and he passed out from the pain. When he awoke, he had found himself being cradled by his mother as she sobbed. He'd also found that the markings that had only shown up before when he was excited or angry, were now permenant.

It was because of those damned wizards that his family's reputation had been destroyed-- after all, who lets their eleven year old son get a facial tattoo?

It was because of them that he had spent the last seven-- or nearly so, at any rate-- years being mocked and ridiculed.

It was because of them that he would never have the ability to be a normal person, like he'd so wanted.

So he was joining the Brigade-- the slang term used to reference the team of elite men and women who rescued children who had been sucked into that hellish world of magic. Outside of the bereaved parents and siblings of those stolen away, the Brigade was a well known and often praised group of "cult deprogrammers". Occassionally they would dabble in other cults, though mostly that was to see if any of the members had a connection to the true occult.

Harrison smiled a cold smile in the mirror, before dropping his hand and straightening his shirt once more.

He had every intent to become one of the members of the Brigade, and save those that needed to be saved. He wouldn't let his birth mother's fate befall any others.

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Question: What if the Ministry had gotten to Harry before Dumbledore?

Pose a question, and I'll do my best to make a drabble out of it. Just can't get my head in gear to write anything longer than a couple of pages.


	2. Fanboy Vernon

When Harry was seven, he did his first little bit of accidental magic. 

Petunia Dursley, his aunt, had gone whiter than snow, mouth open in horrified realization as the glass toppled off of the counter from the child's angry gesture. Dudley Dursley jumped in surprise at the sound of shattering glass, wide eyes on his cousin.

Harry, himself, was looking on in horror of what he'd done. Oh, Aunt Petunia was going to give it to him now! And Uncle Vernon hated it when he broke something. Or did something Petunia said was wrong.

But... Uncle Vernon's gaping mouth had snapped shut after a few minutes of staring. His eyes shone frightfully bright, and a fanatical grin had come across his face.

In another universe, Petunia would have told her husband about her sister and the vile magic that she had been taught to do. In another universe, Petunia would have had to, when they attended Lily Potter-Evans' wedding. However, Petunia had refused to go to the wedding, and had never let Vernon see the note that those freaks had left with baby Harry.

As far as Vernon was concerned, Harry was orphaned because his parents were drunkards, and coming to the Dursleys was the best thing to have ever happened to the boy. Petunia may have had some lingering hate, due to how much the boy looked like his deadbeat dad-- who had 'corrupted' the beautiful Lily-- and therefore didn't treat him so well, but Vernon himself didn't mind the brat.

At least when he wasn't doing something to make Petunia mad.

Even as color returned to Petunia's cheeks, Vernon was moving. He swept the child up into the air, hands under his armpits. The large man whooped, spinning in a circle, "I knew it! I just _knew_ it!"

Petunia's jaw dropped. Vernon knew of magic? No... no, that couldn't be. It wasn't right! She was supposed to marry a normal man!

"Ha-ha! And they all thought I was crazy!"

"V-Vernon...?"

"...dad?" Dudley squeaked, completely confused by the sight before him. This was... abnormal. Seriously abnormal. His dad just didn't do these sorts of things!

Vernon twirled around, now hugging Harry to the point where the boy wondered if his uncle was trying to suffocate him. Petunia had never seen Vernon's face so... so _alight_ before! Not even at their wedding!

With the arm that wasn't holding Harry, he hugged his wife, then bent to kiss his son on the head, "This is a great day, Petunia!"

"Vernon, what are you going on about?"

"The _Force_, Petunia!" Vernon's grin was blinding, "The Force _exists_! And Harry can use it! Do you know what this means?"

Petunia didn't mean to, she really didn't, but the words just escaped, "You're going to become so fanatical that you run around in your Obi-Wan Kenobi costume again?"

Vernon gave his wife an annoyed look. Okay, yes, he was a tiny bit fanatical in his youth. And it _had_ cost him four girlfriends before he'd started to get out of it, and met Petunia. But she didn't have to rub it in!

"No, Petunia. It means we have a Jedi in our midst! I'm going to have to watch all the movies-- and Harry will, too-- to make sure that we didn't miss anything."

"Vernon, those are expensive!"

The large man waved a hand, "Petunia, my love, this is worth so much more than a few quid! We're possibly the start of a, a, a New Jedi Order!"

The man practically bounced out of the kitchen, throwing little Harry into the air, and telling him about all the things a Jedi could do. About lightsabers and X-Wings, the Empire and the Rebellion, Luke and Leia, Han Solo and Chewbacca.

Petunia shook her head with an exasperated sigh. And here she'd been worried her husband knew about magic. No, he was just freakishly into Star Wars; to the point where he mistook a magical accident for accidental use of 'the Force'.

She didn't know if she wanted to kiss or curse George Lucas.

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Question: What if Vernon was a Starwars fanboy?

I actually did research for this. Granted, it wasn't much-- just finding out when ANH, ESB and RotJ were released on VHS, to make sure Vernon would have access to them.

I'm still working on the drabble for the question asked at Itchfic, but it's kinda hard when I don't know if I want to do it dark or not.


	3. Warlock

Barely seven years old, and Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Hero of the Wizarding World, found himself in a bit of a... situation.

His cousin, one Dudley Dursley, who was rather overweight, had been chasing him all about the schoolyard that fine afternoon, along with his pack of fellow bullies. The blond whale's wheezing laughter had sent chills down the young Potter's spine, chills that became a shudder as his foot caught on a tree root, and he was sent sprawlling across the dusty playground. Laughter built up around him, not just from the bullies, but from the other students who had watched the entire thing, never once considering leaping in and helping out.

Cowering on the ground, his cousin had loomed up over him, grinning visciously, and Harry had wished that he was "anywhere but here".

Harry Potter was an undeniably powerful wizard, though untrainned. While most wizardlings and witchlings could make something turn a different color, or perhaps create sparkles in the air, or a furious light to surround them when angry, Harry Potter's accidental magic was on par with what most wizards had to be taught to do. Case in point, Harry's unconscious apparation.

One moment, he was cowering beneath Dudley's fists, and the next he was... well, he didn't know _where_ he was, really. It didn't look at all familiar to him-- the massive stone gate seemed to stretch forever upwards, a warm glow coming from the windows of the castle. There was snow everywhere, from the light dusting on the road, to the tree boughs that drooped beneath it's weight, as well as on the small tents lined up outside the gates. The road itself looked surprisingly muddy, given the cold, but then, there were also people travelling the road.

Harry stopped to stare as a small bearded man-- about his own height, really-- and a tall... creature... with purple skin squared off. The bearded man wore resplendant white armor, a massive two-handed axe held in a relaxed, yet firm, grip. The purple thing wore what looked like colorful leather armor, an axe in one hand and... well, Harry didn't know what it was, but it looked kinda like a stick, in the other hand. A massive wolf stood at the creature's side, it's dark eyes scanning the area.

He let out a little 'eep!' as the two launched themselves at each other, weapons flashing in intricate moves, the wolf leaping to battle. Scrambling backwards, the little boy managed to crash right into someone else.

"Hey! Watch it!" startled, the boy looked up into the glowing blue eyes of another one of those creatures. This one looked more green than blue, with pale blue hair. It definitely appeared female, hands on it's hips and an eyebrow raised, "What's a little human doing way out here?"

Harry just gave her a confused look, only to be startled by someone clucking her tongue. A tiny woman with bright pink pigtails clapped a hand onto his shoulder, "Ease up there, Adalya. He's just a little guy, probably hasn't seen any of those bandits from Elwynn, let alone a Night Elf before," she turned to theboy, looking him straight in the eye, "C'mon then, boy-o, why don't we go find your parents?"

Harry blinked again, before hesitantly offering up the only thing he knew about his parents, "They're dead."

The pink haired one gave the boy a pitiful look, having taken in his dirty, tattered, oversized clothing, promptly pulling him into a hug. Harry stiffened, but the girl didn't seem to notice, "Oh you poor thing! That explains everything!"

"It does?" Adalya's voice was incredulous, "Kara, what are you going on about now?"

Kara gave her friend a sharp look, "Don't you see? It's a miracle that the boy made it this far through the wilderness all by himself! His parents must have been making the trip into Ironforge, and were killed along the way-- it wouldn't be the first time."

Harry didn't know what to say; had no idea where he was, or who these people were. But they didn't seem to be out to harm him, so he just... went along with it. Not much else for him to do.

Years rocketed past, and yet there were few changes to the boy. The tiny human seemed to be perpetually a child, never exceeding a physical age of ten, and it perplexed even the most notable medical experts of the Alliance. Adalya and Kara had fought, briefly, over what the boy should be taught to do for the Alliance, an argument that was brought to a rather abrupt halt when Harry's accidental magic brought him to the attention of the Warlock Briarthorn. Without any fanfare, Briarthorn had swept in and snatched up the little prodigy mageling, to be taught the ways of dark magic.

By the time that Adalya and Kara managed to track down the wayward boy they considered "their" son, Harry had already progressed to the eleventh level of dark magic. Furious with Briarthorn, the Gnome and the Night Elf had taken the boy to Stormwind City to keep him away from the 'bad influence'. Still, the boy's powers grew, and he continued his training. At first, Harry's motivation had been to return to where he had come from, but as the years passed, that goal changed and morphed. He no longer cared for the strange technological world that he had come from. This world of magic and danger was his now.

For the Alliance, Harry fought, and in the Alliance Harry grew. He became a powerful force for their side, a Commander who went about his tasks quite ruthlessly.

It was a pity that he was bound by prophecy to his own world. He had made a name and a place for himself in the world of Azeroth, he was wanted and cared for there. So it was, that in summoning his Voidwalker, Kal'gore, that something went terribly wrong, and he found himself on the exact same patch of land from whence he had vanished some thirty seven years earlier. Oddly enough, there were only the bare minimum of changes, certainly not what he had expected to have occured in nearly four decades.

Downing an Invisibility Potion, the Warlock began to investigate the school, the area, the world he now found himself in. And what he found he did not like.

It had only been about twenty months since he had vanished from this world; not even two full years, and yet he had experienced thirty-seven. Hardly something he appreciated, but until he knew more, the best thing to do would be to... blend in.

Number Four Private Drive, he recalled, was his aunt's home. And there he indeed found his Aunt Petunia. He also found his Uncle Vernon and his cousin Dudley. They were... not so pleased to find him standing on their front step. Less so when he declared that he would be living there until suitable arrangements could be made.

The ten silver pieces he slapped on the table, however, made his Uncle very happen, allowing the boy to remain.

In the cupboard under the stairs, of course. Vernon Dursley refused to let a 'freak' like Harry Potter be any part of _his_ family. Not that Harry really gave a damn. He would use Number Four as his base of operations, where he stored his things in the long run, but he would not live there. A wandering Warlock of the Alliance needed no place to sleep, but for a soft patch of ground.

And so it was for another year, as Harry did his best to research any way to return to Azeroth, but it appeared that it was all for not-- magelings, warlocks, and priests did not appear to even exist in this world.

On the date of his forty-fifth birthday, a most interesting letter was flown to him via an owl. An unsuaul way to deliver messages, to be sure, but some Hunters had enjoyed having a bird deliver messages as it was faster than relying on the mail system when communicating over short distances. It was an invitation to join a school of magic as a student.

Harry's lips quirked upwards in a smirk. Perhaps he had been looking in all the wrong places. Here, Priests were but preachers in churches. Here, Mages were fairytales. Here, Warlocks did not hide in the shadows of a tavern.

No, here there were Witches and Wizards, and perhaps through this school he would learn a suitable portal spell that would allow him to traverse through the worlds. Anything was possible, after all.

**uiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiuiui**

Question: What if Harry Potter somehow managed to wind up in Azeroth/World of Warcraft?

Been bugging me for awhile, so I'm just randomly throwing this out there. It's not the greatest, but it's a drabble, and therefore is not supposed to be. 


	4. Snakes and Sound

Empty.

That was the only word to describe him now, sitting on that swing in the playground not all that far from his famiuly's home. There was nothing left, no purpose, no power, no reason. Just the big, empty, blank space where hope had been.

He'd been seventeen for three days, now. The age of majority in the Wizarding World, and the age at which a Wizard came into his magical inheritence. Three days ago, he had lost everything.

For his seventeenth birthday, Voldemort had slaughtered an entire muggle village, sending him the images via the bond that existed between them. Half way through the night's "fun", Harry James Potter had come into his magical inheritence-- with the link between the Dark Lord and he still wide open.

Riddle had noticed, of course. It was hard to miss the sudden spike in power, and the sheer pain that blasted through the link. It was one thing to sit there and witness it, feel the same pain... but Voldemort was hardly human any more. He had reached across their bond, and stole the entire inheritence. Voldemort had turned the Boy-Who-Lived into a muggle. Not a squib-- a _muggle_.

Though he knew that the objects were there, he was completely incapable of seeing the purely magic objects that he owned. He could no longer see animals that he hadn't realised were magical, nor could he see the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. He couldn't see the letters on Hedwig's legs until they'd been untied.

The only thing that had remained with him was parseltongue. It wasn't an unconscious thing any more. Much like any other second language, he would have to actually have to think about switching from english into the snake language. This, of course, did _not_ make him feel better. So he could talk to snakes. Big Deal. That wouldn't give him back the life that he'd known for the last seven years.

Voldemort had, essentially, won. What was the point of sticking around here? He had no skills for the muggle world. He had nothing to offer the Wizarding one. His family hated him, and rubbed his misfrotune in his face at every chance they got.

"Have you decied?"

Harry closed his eyes. This was his one chance. If he took this, there was no going back; he would have to pledhe his loyalty, his life, his very soul to this man. To his ideals, his dreams, his plots and plans. It seemed like so much that he would lose control of if he gave it up to this man.

Not that he had much control over his own life, anyways. In this way, it would be a weight off his shoulders. Though he would still bear the cross of others, he was no longer carrying that of tghe Wizarding World. This was one man, and his dreams. This one man... could possibly give back what had been lost.

He would be able to kill Voldemort, not for the Wizarding World. Not for his parents. But for his own vengence.

Harry stood, turning to face his companion, bowing deeply, "Command me, and it will be done."

"Good," the man smiled, patting his newest recruit on the shoulder, a slow insidious smile curving his lips, "As of now, Harry Potter is dead. Come, Dosu. It is time to meet your new... family."

"As you wish, Lord Orochimaru."

* * *

Question: What if Harry lost his magic?

Uh, yeah. Crack drabble, don't ask. I'm not really sure _how_ Orochimaru wound up in it.


	5. The Amazing Birdboy

My name is Tobias.

I'm a red-tailed hawk; I have a territory, I hunt small mammals, and I roost in a tree. It's not exactly "the good life", but it's better than it was a year ago. Or two years ago.

See, I wasn't born a hawk. I was born human. Well, at least as human as a kid whose father was an alien, and whose mother was a witch. Yes, you read right, my mother was a witch. Normally, I keep my focus of the weird stuff in my life on my father's half of the tale. Mom's story was over long ago, and I _really_ don't like getting into it. But there's been a few problems lately. So I'm going to have to explain, whether I want to or not.

My mother was a witch from Britain. She'd been on a family vacation to the states-- I'm not exactly clear on why, but I think it might have been a "one last hurrah" before she moved full time into the Wizarding World. While in America, she'd been kidnapped by aliens. This is another of those things I don't really know about. I've heard my father's side of the story, but never her's. All I know is that somewhere along the way, in the middle of their crazy space-time adventures, my mother fell in love with her rescuer. He wasn't human-- he was a type of alien called an Andalite.

They eventually managed to get back to Earth, and they settled down. I was conceived and everything was doing okay until dad got called back out into his war, and mom's memories were erased. She moved back to England and married her school-time sweetheart. I don't think she ever realized that I wasn't the son of her second husband, but the son of her forgotten first. _I_ didn't even know until my last birthday. She died thinking I was James Potter's son. The Wizarding World still believes it.

Which is why I'm telling you this-- I've got to go back and fix some things I left behind. See, when I was twelve, I ran away from my aunt's home. There's not a whole lot of people in Wizarding London that would deny "the great Harry Potter" something. Even international portkeys.

It was... rough, for a while. Social services picked me up, and put me with a foster family. Of course, I didn't tell anyone I was Harry Potter. I was terrified of being sent back to Wizarding London-- I'd just had to deal with a _giant snake_ that had tired to kill me and came real close to killing a friend's sister. I couldn't handle something like that again. Not so soon, anyway.

So I became Tobias. I explained being shuffled around the country from foster home to foster home-- somehow always winding up back where I'd started-- as being shuttled between uncaring family members. It's not like I hadn't had experience deal with family that didn't like me. What I didn't have experience with was American Muggle life. I was a few years behind on my studies, but it wasn't so bad. I went to school and made... well, not friends, but acquaintances. Life was pretty normal.

For awhile.

I'd hooked up with some acquaintances at the mall one night. It was the girl I liked, her cousin, her best friend, and her cousin's best friend. Rachel, Jake, Cassie, and Marco. I still don't know why they decided to let me walk home with them, but that walk changed all of our lives. My father, even if I didn't know it was him back then, came back into my life. He was only there for a little while, but he left a definite mark on all of us.

We were there when he died-- when he was murdered.

After that, life wasn't normal anymore. War had come knocking on humanity's door, and only five teenaged humans were there to answer it. We didn't know what we were getting into, but we couldn't just stand back and let things go on. Unfortunately, all wars have causalities... and I was the first. See, my father had given us a special gift, a special _power_ to fight the enemy with. He'd given us the power to morph. We could be any living creature who's DNA we'd absorbed, for two hours at a time. Once those two hours were up, you'd be stuck, forever in morph.

I'd stayed a hawk for too long.

We fought the good fight; we made some allies and friends. Discovered things no human had ever been meant to. We were manipulated, lied to, forced into battles we didn't know how to win. Situations that would send any normal kid screaming for their mommies. One such situation resulted in the very being that stole my father and erased my mother's memories giving me back the power to morph. I could be human again, but only for two hours. Any longer and I would be of even less use as a human than I'd been as a hawk.

But things have gotten far more dangerous now than my teammates, my _friends_, realize. They don't know about the Wizarding World. They don't know of the powers and abilities hidden away in certain parts of the worlds' cultures, living, laughing, loving without ever crossing over into the mundane world. Their world. My world.

Our enemies, the Yeerks, have found the Wizards. There's no way to tell the difference between a normal person and a controller-- that is to say, a person who's been completely subjugated by the Yeerk parasite living in their brain. With magic at the fingers tips of their hosts, the Yeerks would have no problem in taking control of the human race. Why have to worry about caging your hosts when a simple spell can control their every movement for you, while you're outside their body, soaking up Kandrona rays?

It's time for Harry Potter to return and help his mother's people, before his father's war can get out of hand.

* * *

Question: "What if Harry was an Animorph?"

So. I may have gotten Tobias totally out of character here. I DON'T KNOW. I don't normally write Tobias. I don't play Tobias in any games. Marco is my Animorphs character of choice, and it's a bit hard to switch gears from the egotistical wonder to the bird boy. But I felt Tobias was a better pick for Harry than Marco, so I wrote Tobias. Yay?


	6. Soviet Magic

When Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley were three, Vernon Dursley started an affair with one of his co-workers. When they were four, she announced her pregnancy, and started demanding that Vernon divorce Petunia to marry her. Throughout the pregnancy, Vernon promised that he was diligently working on Petunia, that the papers need only to be signed.

He had no intention of actually leaving his wife for some _tramp_ of a woman.

When Dudley was five, his sister was born, and her mother decided to take things into her own hands. By six, Dudley and Harry had been paraded before a judge and jury, their faces known by all of London. They were the famous children of the now deceased Petunia Dursley.

Vernon was convicted of the murder of his wife, the motive being her unwillingness to sign the divorce papers-- papers that had myteriously turned up at the crime scene. The hundred thousand pound life insurance policy that had gone into effect a month before her death was also suspect. The police forces of London did their duties well, fully investigating Vernon's mistress, but no connections had ever been found.

Any evidence to the contrary went mysteriously missing, and witnesses refused to speak of it.

The children were awarded to the mistress, as her daughter was their closest blood relative, and by seven neither Dudley Dursley nor Harry Potter existed as such. They had been formally adopted by Vernon's mistress, Anastasia Deling. By eight, she had married into one fo the most prestigous and influencial families in all of London.

Her children, Dudley, Harry, and Rinny, had more access to power, prestige and wealth than several nations. They had only the very best private tutors and sports instructors. They were treated as the best of the best, the highest of elites, despite their humble beginnings. The few that had so much as a negative _thought_ about them would soon change their minds.

For while Anastasia may have _looked_ like a simple woman from a simple background, she was anything but. The well off daughter of a Soviet spy in London, she had long since been groomed to go beyond her father's path. She had every intention of raising one of "her" boys to be the next Soviet leader.

So when Harry's acceptance letter to Hogwarts arrived, Anastias jumped at the chance, mind racing with delightful images of mind control spells and undetectable executions, all inspired by years of Hollywood movies and fantasy novels. She had quickly scrawlled Harry's acceptance, and cooed to her middle child about all the wonderful things he would do as his brother's number one enforcer.

Harry smiled up at the woman who had saved him, happy to be able to return all the kindess and love she had bestowed upon him, and said, "Anything for you, Momma."

* * *

Question: What if Petunia Dursley was murdered?

I'm... not exactly sure how Dudley and Harry wound up with a Soviet spy but, uh... it works? Kinda? Originally, I was going to have Dudley do something magical and Vernon had a fit and wind up killing Petunia. Except that I then realised that Vernon would kill Harry first. So. Jilted lover turned Soviet spy. Woo?

I'll be posting some of my drabbles set in the Route Unknown timeline sometime in the near future. They may or may not actually make it into the story, but I've been having fun writing them, and getting back into the mindset needed to write Kingdom Hearts dark AU fanfic.


	7. Got it memorized?

Voldemort was dead.

He'd finally accomplished his life's mission, his ultimate goal, his _destiny_. He nudged Tom's still form with the toe of one boot, but it wasn't like the dark lord would have been able to fake his death, anyways.

The man was little more than a charred skeleton, the ultimate punishment for pissing off the young Harry Potter. Shaking fingers lightly patted his cheeks, and he wondered why he wasn't crying. He felt that he should be, that this was a situation that called for tears. His life was his own again. For the first time since he was a year old, his life was his own.

So why did he feel so empty? It was like there was nothing left within him. Like the flames of his rage, still merrily eating away at the Forbidden Forest, had taken something away from him. Or maybe it was that with the death of his opponent, he no longer had meaning. He wasn't somebody anymore-- oh, sure, the Wizarding World would revere him, would put him on a pedestal for destroying the man they hadn't been able to.

Or maybe... maybe they would toss him away. They would fear the one who had killed the dark lord, claim him to be the next, to be the heir of Voldemort. They might even go so far as to throw him in Azkaban.

"Strange..." he murmured to himself, contemplating that possibility. He didn't... _feel_ anything when he thought of the Wizarding Prison. He didn't fear going there. He didn't feel any worry, any sensation, really.

Absently, he dismissed the flames that still burned so hot, revealing corpse after corpse, the charred remains of the Death Eaters that had wanted to watch their master finally destroy the "Boy-Who-Lived", once and for all.

Slowly, he turned to face the reason the flames had escaped his tight control in this battle. Crumpled behind him was the dead form of one Ginny Weasley, who had followed him out that night to try and wring an explanation for his recent actions out of him. Voldemort had opened their duel by killing her, and all Harry had been able to see was burning red. The flames had come, burning through everything as he summoned the runic weapons that had been bound to his soul.

His chakrams had burned brilliantly as he cut down the Wizard with a power he'd never even seen before. No one had; it was unique to Harry, something he'd discovered on his own one night, while hunting horcruxes. It seemed funny to think that Voldemort had been brought down because he'd killed someone that Harry couldn't honestly find it within himself to dredge up any feeling for.

Emotion was a curious thing, he thought, brushing his fingers through her flame-red hair-- Ginny was the only one who had not been charred by the flames. She still looked as perfect as she had before the Avada Kedavra had cut her down. Perfect, huh? That implied that he had... loved her.

He hadn't.

He didn't love anyone, but he was good at faking it. He could simulate the emotions of others; had been doing it for so long that he had honestly thought that they were his emotions. For a long time, he'd thought that his simple reactions to stimuli were honest, actual emotions.

If he did feel emotions, they were just pale shades of the emotions that others felt; he knew that so very well now. Albus' death should have set him off just as Sirius' had... but it didn't. What had he been called...? Oh, that's right "Dumbledore's Man"; and yet he hadn't been able to dredge up enough emotion to really rage about it. He'd stopped playing to how people expected him to react to things, and now he found himself crouched at the side of a dead woman who had loved him.

She had been devoted to him, he knew that. He hadn't been able to return her feelings, but he had... reciprocated her actions. If she'd survived, he may have even done what was expected and married her. But she was dead, and would soon be little more than a memory.

Something twisted inside of him, and he once again wished for tears. He didn't want Ginny to be a nobody in the passage of history. It wasn't nice being a nobody, and he wouldn't wish that experience on anyone. So he would do his best, in his own way, to keep her alive.

His magic reached out, drawing what little spiritual energy was left in the youngest Weasley out of her and into him. His head felt strange... it tingled and burned as his magic forced his hair to grow, the first few inches of hair his born black, but anything new... all that was crimson. His hair was now the same as hers had been, and he stood with a nod.

No one would be able to forget the fiery redhead. He wouldn't allow them.

He left her there; her and the Death Eaters, and Voldemort, for someone else to find. That was no longer his concern. No, now his only goal was to find something to fill the emptiness in his chest.

"Impressive."

Harry stopped, barely turning to glance at the black robed figure that had melted out of the trees.

"And foolish," the other continued, "to destroy your own Heart."

The flame-user raised an eyebrow, "My _heart_?"

The man gestured towards the charred clearing, "I couldn't tell who, but someone in that dead clearing was the other half of you. Your Heart."

"I don't know what the hell you're going on about," Harry snorted, and began walking towards Hogwarts again.

"There is an emptiness inside you," the robed one continued, "where once your Heart resided. You can not feel anything. But you remember it, do you not?"

Harry snorted, "No, actually, I don't."

"How curious. Neither do I," the man reached up, removing his hood and letting silvery hair frame his face. The young Potter was unimpressed, having seen far more interesting sights throughout his life. He continued his lazy stroll through the Forbidden Forest, the strange man gliding behind him.

"Do you not want to know what true feeling is?"

The redhead paused, eyeing him warily, long since having learned that most things did not come for free, "What's the catch?"

"You serve me."

Potter considered this for a moment. Pondered the reasons why he should or should not... and came to a decision. He was empty now, but that didn't mean he had to be. He smirked, "Sure why not? It's not like I have anything better to do with my time."

The man smiled back, a cold, empty smile, and waved a hand. Darkness itself came at his beckoning, swirling into a shadowed portal. He paused before he passed through it, eyeing the redhead thoughtfully, "And what is the name of the flurry of dancing flames?"

Harry smirked at him, amused. He wasn't going to give his true name-- he wasn't stupid, and knew names had power-- but it would be wrong not to give his new 'master' something to call him. It should be enough for the stranger, at least until Harry got his new Heart, and they parted ways.

"Axel. A-X-E-L. Got it memorized?"

* * *

Question: What if Harry was in Kingdom Hearts? 

I, uh, have like... six versions of this. So this is the "Axel Version". You may or may not get the other versions. That really depends on whether or not I get off my arse and type them up. This one got typed up because Sora and I are waiting on Axel-baby to respond at BDE.

Seriously, we can't do anything until Axel reacts to Roxas & Sora, which means we have to wait until Axel-baby gets home from school. Which, of course, means that I'M BORED. I could be working on the Axel/Roxas doujin we wrote last night, but I'm also too lazy to be drawing anything. Which doesn't really work with the whole "I'm bored" thing.

And on another note-- if this doesn't make sense to you? Go play Kingdom Hearts 2. In fact, go play it even if you've beaten the game six times already. I need more good Roxas fics that aren't all about the OMG!ANGSTFEST, because those get tiring after the 50th one.


	8. Shift in Priorities

Harry adjusted his tuxedo jacket, glaring into the mirror in front of him. He didn't like the way it fell across his body-- he just looked too thin, to tired to fit it properly. Though being tired was hardly unexpected, considering all that had gone down in the past few years.

Dumbledore's death, followed by the hunt for the Horcruxes. Voldemort's ascention into power. Hermione's death, and Ron's break down. Battle after tiresome battle. The near decimation of the Wizarding World, culminating in the deaths of almost the entire Weasley clan.

Ginvera had barely finished her experiments before the end came, but she was the reason they had defeated Voldemort at all. The reason that the _muggles_ had defeated Voldemort. In the final battle between Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, it had been her experiments that save the day. The 'power the dark lord knows not' was not _love_. It was not some mystical ability that Harry had randomly produced.

Whatever Ginny had done, she'd made muggles capable of completing certain magical spells, so long as they'd carried one of her little tools with them. Mister and Missus Granger died as they combined their newfound powers together and blasted the bejesus out of Tom, vengence for their daughter foremost in their minds.

Harry had just dealt the killing blow: three bullets to the face, and one through the heart. He didn't want to take any chances.

The Wizarding World hadn't been the only thing destroyed in the climatic battle between "good" and "evil". Muggles all across Europe had found themselves caught up in the war this time, caught by Voldemort's genocidal tendancies, and the Ministry's refusal to aid them. They were muggles, after all. Not that it mattered now-- if a muggle could get their hands on Ginny's devices, they were just as capable with magic as any pureblood.

"Geez, look at you, Harry," the green eyed man turned his attention away from his ill-fitting suit to his friend lounging in the doorway. Ron looked thinner than ever, his suit jacket hanging lightly on his shoulders and long hair tied back. He'd refused to cut it since Hermione had died, and with his family following only a year afterwards, he intended to keep it as a memorial, "You ready for the big day, buddy?"

"Ron, where's your tie?" Harry turned his attention back to the mirror, adjusting his own tie.

"Harry," Ron mimicked, "where's your _hair_?"

The green-eyed man self-consciously ran his hand over his smooth, bald scalp. He'd only shaved it just that morning, not wanting to enter into this commitment with anything to tie him back to the past. The scar he had born for so long had faded on Voldemort's death. Part of it was still there, faded and nearly invisible, the only remnant of getting hit with the killing curse, but without the continuing connection to Tom there was nothing to force it to be so prominant.

Ron rolled his eyes, "Oh stop wallowing. It doesn't look bad, just weird. I'll be happy when it all grows back."

"It's not going to," Harry murmured.

"What?"

"It's not going to," he repeated, finally satisfied that his tuxedo looked, if not perfect, than acceptable, "I'm not growing it back. I've already had cosmetic spells done to prevent the hair from growing back up there."

"What the hell, mate?" Ron was staring at him like he'd just killed a puppy or something, "Why the hell would you do _that_? Hair's one of the indicators of wealthy in--"

"We're not in the Wizarding World anymore, remember?" Harry shook his head, "And once I take these oaths... make these promises..."

"Yeah, yeah," Ron slumped, "You sure you're ready for this? We could put it off for a few months. Years. Whatever. Don't have to jump in right now."

"I'm ready for this," Harry cracked a small smile, fishing his glasses out from a pocket inside his jacket, "let's go."

"Jeez," Ron muttered, following behind his bald friend, hands stuffed into his pockets and wrinkling his perfectly pressed suit jacket, "Don't make it sound like we're running off to our deaths there, mate."

"We might be," Potter smirked over his shoulder, "This isn't just a business venture."

The redhead snorted, "Yeah, I'm sure Shin-Ra will be _delighted_ that you're so gung-ho to work for them."

The bald man shrugged, "So?"

"So? So? Seriously, man, why do you always get to decide what we do with our lives? First we'll be Aurors, then we're treasure hunters and freedom fighters, now we're Turks? Why don't I ever get to decide these things."

"You decided what we had for breakfast," Harry pointed out with a small smile.

"That's not the same thing!"

"Then stop letting me make them."

Ron paused for a moment, "...I don't have any better suggestions."

"Then stop complaining, Reno."

"Did we ever decide on family names?" Ron threw the question out pretty randomly, but it did make sense. Neither man had wanted to be used as propaganda for people to join Shin-Ra's SOLDIER program, and so had kept their real names secret. The only time they ever used them was when they were sure that no one was listening in.

"Do we need them?"

"Everyone _needs_ them, Rude," Ron snorted, "Otherwise we're just Reno and Rude."

"...of the Turks."

"That's not a family name."

"...we didn't need them when we were signing up."

"Oh yeah, I didn't think of that."

Harry flashed his friend a grin over his shoulder, catching sight of his image in the reflection in a store window. Ron was right, he looked pretty weird right now. He needed to bulk up-- get some muscle, stop looking so thin. Maybe he should grow a beard, too...

* * *

Question: What if Harry worked for Shin-Ra? 

Because for some reason, the image of Harry Potter as Rude is freakin' hilarious.

And if you're wondering ((I know you are)) Ginny was messing around with Materia before she died. Ginny totally woulda been Hojo. Only not because she's dead. And female, but mostly because she's dead.

Randomly, FF7 totally implies Heartless and Kingdom Hearts. Seriously. When Bugenhagen's describing the lifestream he says "What about their consciousness, their hearts and their souls?" Think on that for awhile! ((...yes, I know I'm reading too much into this stuff. STFU.))


	9. Family of Thieves

Petunia Dursley sighed heavily, staring out over the park where her previous six year old baby boy was playing with his friends. Just from the way he led them, she could _tell_ that he'd be someone powerful and important one day.

But he was so much like his father...

She loved Vernon, with all her heart. She wouldn't have married him otherwise. Still, he had a very strange set of morals, and those he passed on to Dudley. "Big is better" was the first, and Petunia had long sings stopped trying to cut down what her baby ate. If she tried to stop him, he'd just whine-- and Vernon would give him more, anyways.

His second moral was that is was "alright to starve the lesser people"-- which meant that Dudley would frequently take the food meant for his cousin. As much as Petunia disliked the son of her betrayer of a sister, _she_ at least remembered that he needed to be _alive_ in case one of those freaks came to check on him.

They had, after all, brought the brat back to her home on the seven occasions that she'd left him at an orphanage, and the three times Vernon had tried to abandon him to the wilderness.

Vernon's third moral was the reason she was watching her son, and feeling her heart break. "Stealing is wrong." He wouldn't even embezzle a pound here or there from Grunnings! Her husband, it seemed, while dirty in a thousand other ways, clung to the Ten Commandments like a dying man. It was frustrating.

A tiny, dirty hand had slipped into her purse, but a glance at the bracelet on the wrist stayed her hand, and she continued watching her son.

The boy, like his father, refused to steal. Oh, he would take another child's toys and play with them, but by the end of the day, the toy-- much the worse for wear-- would be back in the other kid's hands. Dudley and Vernon called it "borrowing". The few times that she'd tried to encourage him to keep the toys, he'd looked at her strangely. When he'd questioned his father about it, Vernon had come to her demanding an explanation, and she made up some cock and bull story about worrying about how much money they had to spend on Dudley when they had to host the boy.

That had directly led to the first time that Harry had been abandoned. In the few days he'd been on the streets, the child had obviously learned something. When he came back after the third abandonment, he'd understood the hints in her speech; understood what she meant when she wistfully told her song that she'd like to have as much money as "that lady" obviously did, to be wearing diamonds to a park.

The Evans family had been thieves-- and good ones at that. Some of the best in the world; she and Lily had been primed to follow in Carmen and Henry's footsteps, when Lily had gotten the magic letter. She'd gone off and forgotten everything about being a thief, seeing as she went and married a magical _cop_.

Mom may have been a detective once, but that was just _wrong_. It still made Petunia mad to think about it.

And with her own son seemingly refusing to take up the family trade, well, she'd just have to deal with the cards she'd been given.

The braceleted hand dipped into her purse again, and then her nephew hid behind her skirts. He was done for the day, and her purse certainly felt heavier for it. In ten minutes, she'd call Dudley and they'd return home.

It wouldn't be until after Vernon went to bed that she-- and Harry, as it was technically his loot-- would go through the wallets and coin purses he'd collected. By the time that they drained bank accounts, and counted coins, Petunia knew that they'd have thousands of pounds at hand. It certainly wasn't anything like the heists her mother had pulled off, or even what she'd done before she married Vernon, but it was a start.

If her son wouldn't follow the family tradition, then _dammit_, Petunia Sandiego Dursley would _make_ her sister's son do it.

* * *

What if the Evans Family were thieves?

Okay, a bit of explanation. This drabble, in it's entirely, can be blamed on Rorschach's Blot. I recently joined his yahoo group, and I was just in time to read a new story-- literally, just hours after I joined, he posted a few scenes from "Thief". Which spawned a huge debate, and what have you. And meanwhile ((while I'm bemoaning about how very raped my inbox was)) drabble ideas are spawning. So Rors? This is totally for you, because you are mean and cause ideas.

And maybe I'll get around to posting something to your list, some day XD


	10. Cold Case

Before you start reading this one, please take a moment to note:

THIS IS NOT A PLEASANT FIC.

It is not happy in any way. It is, in fact, partially based on a case from Cold Case Files on A&E. That should tell you right there why it's not a happy story.

* * *

When Harry Potter's acceptance letter for Hogwarts returned unopened the first time, no one thought too much of it. For those 'in the know', as it were, they assumed it was just another case of a muggle not realizing that the letter spoke the truth. The standard response to that was simply to send another letter on. The next day was the same. The day after that, as well. In fact, for a week and a half there was no change in this, no matter how many letters were sent out.

When the owls were told to wait for a response; that they were not allowed to leave until they got a definitive yes or no from the young Potter, something unusual happened.

Albus had simply been directing the owls to go to the Dursley household and drop the letter off with whoever was home and to await a response. When the birds had been shooed away, it was considered a response by them, and they had returned to Hogwarts still carrying their letters. This time, being directed to seek out Harry Potter, it was different.

The owls didn't leave.

Confused, Albus told them to go find Harry Potter. They still didn't leave.

For a moment, the Headmaster frowned in thought, considering what he knew of the Potter Bloodline, and the level and type of power Harry had within him. A jolly smile broke out on his face as he contemplated the possibility that Harry had accidentally transported himself to Hogwarts at some point, and had been living there ever since, hidden away from any prying eyes.

A thorough search of the entire castle through both mundane and magical means revealed that that had been something of a silly thought. Really, a boy only just eleven being able to apparate through Hogwarts' own wards? What had he been thinking? He really did need to lay off the fantasy novels! Those transporter beams may be able to transport people through outer space and through any sort of ward-shield, but they didn't really exist.

The Headmaster thought over this dilemma once again, and this time decided to send Hagrid on to the Dursley family.

The Half-Giant returned in a right fury-- apparently, the Dursleys had never even seen Harry Potter in the aftermath of Halloween 1981. The babe that had been left on the doorstep had vanished between when the wizards had left and when the Dursleys had awoken.

They'd also charged Hagrid for breaking down their door in his attempts to get in. They did not particularly enjoy being awoken in the middle of the night by an intruder, and that went doubly so for a /magical/ intruder. Albus simply patted Hagrid on the shoulder and made plans to make reparations. Given the Dursley's aversion to all things magical, he had to contact Arabella Figg in order to get information on muggle contractors to fix the damage done to the door.

This was when the alarm bells started ringing in his head; for when he explained to Arabella what had happened, she in turn reported that there /had/ been a second child at the Dursley household when she had moved in, but she'd only caught a glimpse of him from a distance. When he didn't show up again, she assumed that he was a friend that the Dursleys had arranged for Harry to have, and that the two boys had not gotten on.

She had mistaken Dudley Dursley for Harry Potter, not knowing that the boy that she could only watch from a distance-- Petunia and Vernon didn't want Dudley anywhere /near/ the crazy cat lady, and only partly because the boy was mildly allergic to cats-- was not the one she had been sent to watch over.

A sick feeling began to build in Albus' stomach, a worry that may have been ten years too late. Tamping down his worry and ill feelings, Albus asked Arabella to take a step back as he needed to investigate the Dursley household himself. Traveling through the floo, it came to Albus that he should get some 'back-up' as it were. A quick call to the ministry (and a "possible case of muggle abuse of a magical child") resulting in two Aurors coming through to act as his back-up. While this might have been a false alarm, Albus wasn't willing to take chances.

Not now. Not anymore.

The three of them-- the Aurors had introduced themselves, but Albus had been too busy worrying to listen-- walked up the street in their transfigured muggle clothing towards the Dursley household. Albus thought that the Auror's clothing was a bit bland, but then, he didn't realize that they were wearing the uniform of London's Police Inspectors. He, himself, was dressed in a charming orange and purple business suit that would have fit into the nineteen twenties if not for the colours.

Vernon was the one to answer the door, and he would have mouthed off to Albus and his obviously freakish nature, if it hadn't been for the two officers who stood between them. "Can I help you, Inspectors?"

The smaller of the two, whose presence had seemed incidental on the walk over, suddenly seemed to be the largest and most powerful man that Vernon had ever met. Sharp brown eyes were cold and completely focused, "I am Inspector Writewind and this is Inspector Calden. This is Professor Dumbledore, and he has brought some... information to our attention. If we may come in?"

Vernon swallowed a bit. Dumbledore was a name that his wife had warned him about, but he couldn't just throw out two Inspectors! As much as he wished to deny them entry, to do so would only make them more suspicious of him, and so he stepped aside. The three men entered, and Vernon guided them into the sitting room.

Inspector Writewind's gaze swept over the room, noting the decorations and the furniture. It was a well off home, though small, and it was well cared for. Inspector Calden turned his attention fully on the owner of the home. "Mister Dursley, we are here in an attempt to find your nephew, one Harry Potter."

Vernon's face reddened in annoyance. "I told the F-- the Professor from that school that we have never seen the boy. Not since the deaths of my in-laws."

A glance was shared between the inspectors, "You were aware of the deaths of the Potters then?"

"Of course!" the man blustered, "It was our happi... it was a sad day indeed to hear of their deaths."

Another glance, another question, "And yet you never saw Mister Potter?"

"What does the boy have to do with any of it?"

"My dear boy," Albus interjected, and the Inspectors themselves were surprised by the hard look in the kindly Headmaster's gaze, "The only way you could have known of their deaths were from the letter I left with Harry. The wards protecting this house would not allow any other information regarding the deaths of the Potters through." It was a standard procedure at the time, so as to prevent orphans from being tormented by Death Eaters with information of how their families had been killed, in explicit detail.

Vernon paled, and the Inspectors nodded.

Writewind slipped his wand out of his wrist holster. "Point Me: Harry Potter."

The wand spun around rapidly for a moment, then jerked to a halt above his hand. Calden clamped his hands down on Vernon's shoulders, and guided the man along with them as they followed the wand's direction. The result was a tall bookshelf that took up quite a bit of space alongside the stairwell. A flick of the wand, and the bookshelf slid down the wall and revealed a door beneath the stairs.

Albus' mouth ran dry and he was forced to lick his lips. The door did not look like it had seen the light of day in many years-- the wall was a different shade entirely, behind the bookshelf, as though the Dursleys had painted around the bookshelf instead of moving it. All around the door were sticks of incense, long since having lost their scent.

"Alohomora."

The door creaked in protest as it was opened, and the incense sticks fell to the floor. Yet there was no boy in the cupboard under the stairs-- only a large locked trunk. The wand was pointing at the trunk.

Albus couldn't bear to watch as the Inspectors levitated the trunk out of the cupboard. He couldn't watch as they opened it. That sick feeling deep inside nearly broke him as Inspector Calden cursed loudly. The Hogwarts Headmaster had to bow his head and fight back the tears before he could even contemplate turning to see the sight that was so horrifying.

It was an image that would never leave Albus' mind, until the day that he died.

For the Boy-Who-Lived was undoubtedly dead. From the looks of the tiny broken and mummified corpse, he hadn't even reached his second birthday; his skull caved in from a harsh blow.

* * *

What If: Vernon Dursley was as violently abusive as lots of fanfics make him out to be?

Sorry guys. I keep reading these "Vernon is abusive!!!!1!!one!!1" stories, and can't help but wonder /when/ Vernon would have started being so violent. From what I've seen, it seems to be the first indication of accidental magic; not that most authors state this, but it seems to be an unconscious way of making sure that Harry at least survives to an age where he wouldn't die from a harsh enough blow. (Hmm, has anyone seen any drabbles/fic where the Dursleys actually treat Harry like a normal kid UNTIL his first example of magic? It would mean he'd have some good memories of them, unless he was like... three... when it happened, but it would also create some interesting character development if pulled off right.)

Anyways, like I said at the beginning, it was partially based off of a case I saw a few times on A&E. A relative kills a child. Wraps the child up. Puts them in a trunk in a closet. Forgets about them. It was a little disturbing, especially when you consider that the only record of this child existing was the birth certificate, she was so young.


End file.
